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He dropped his hands to his sides with a gruff exhale. “What if…” He spun in a tight circle, fingers bunched into fists. “Fuck, I don’t know, Taylor. I don’t fucking know what’s going on. It doesn’t make any sense, but I want you. I don’t know why, and I don’t know when it started, but…”
He shrugged, resigned, and it was all so ridiculous to me, I had to laugh. “That’s it? You said I have bad arguments, but you’re the one admitting you don’t even know why you want to do this.” I lifted my arms, waving to the whole of his house. “It’s bad enough I’m here and we did what we did this morning. Let’s leave it at that. There is no way we can keep going without running headfirst into a dead end,” I said, trying to convince myself more than him that this was an absolutelyhorribleidea. “In a few weeks, when I move in to my new office, you’ll throw a fit, call me a bitch, and be pissed that you slept with me, and everything will be worse than it was before.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing me in a way I knew he glowered at his opponents in a case. My palms turned clammy, and I instinctively took two steps back from him.
“Are you afraid to give in because you’re afraid to get attached?” He took two steps forward.
I forced a laugh. “No.”
“That’s what it sounds like.” He lifted one shoulder. “But I do no-strings-attached sex all the time.” He cocked his head like the smug bastard he was. “I thought you did too, and I admitted I want you. I gave you an orgasm this morning. You know how good it would be between us.”
I hadn’t realized he’d backed me into the wall until I hit it, but he kept right on taunting me. “Nothing has to change between us. You’ll still be a bitch, and we’ll still fight over the same promotion, but we could at least get some stress relief in the meantime.”
“No.” I darted around him. “That’s a terrible idea.”
“Terrible because you can’t do it.”
I ignored him and picked up my duffel bag from the floor in the hall. “This my room?”
Not waiting for his answer, I flopped onto the bed, staring at the pale-blue walls. Dean leaned on the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, with a stupid smirk on his stupid face. “Bathroom’s right there.” He tipped his head back on an angle behind him. “Towels in the closet. Help yourself to whatever you want. Food’s in the fridge if you’re hungry.” Then he lifted one pointed eyebrow. “Let me know if you need anything.”
I flipped him my middle finger, and he laughed.
Fucking laughed.
I waited until I heard him trek back downstairs before whacking the bed with my pillow a few times to release my anger. Then I made myself at home in his bathroom, which was as well done as the rest of his home, with gleaming white tile, a big vanity, industrial-style lights, and even a hanging plant in the corner, right next to the self-standing shelf with baskets of soaps and Q-tips. He even had a candle that was half melted, like this dude actually used it.
I stepped into the shower with perfect pressure. Of fucking course.
The more I got to know him, the more I hated him.
I took my time shaving and exfoliating then helped myself to sniff his body wash and special beard shampoo. Just to annoy him, I moved all the bottles around. I wrapped a fluffy towel around myself and changed into leggings and a sweatshirt then hung up my clothes in the closet and checked on Kennedy through a few texts. After spending an inordinate amount of time organizing myself, I couldn’t delay it any further and headed downstairs. Dean was in the kitchen, in the middle of placing a plate in the dishwasher.
“Finally,” he said, closing the machine door. “I need to shower. I made myself a sandwich for dinner.”
“You have the diet of a second grader.”
He ignored that. “Plates are up there. Napkins over there. Clean up after yourself when you’re done.”
Then he brushed by me, and my jaw hit the floor. After his performance in the office, that was it? No pleading or persuading me to have sex with him?
I shouldn’t have been surprised; this was what I wanted—for him to drop it—and yet as I opened up the bread, I recognized the pebbles that sat in the pit of my stomach as disappointment. I made myself a turkey sandwich, though I could have made it a triple-layer hoagie for all the cold cuts and cheese he had in his drawer. Not to mention the fifteen different types of mustard.
I ate at the round dining table and made sure to pick up every single crumb, lest the clean freak come after me. Then I grabbed the rest of my things from by the front door and made my way back upstairs. I heard Dean walking around. He spent some time in the office, and eventually, the sounds of the television floated up from the living room, but I didn’t want to encroach any more into his territory.
Or face the increasingly harder to ignore desire that had been building since this morning. So instead, I gorged myself on Lindsay Lohan movies and turned in early. The bed was comfortable, and with my own pillow and pillowcase, I should have been able to sleep, but all I could concentrate on was the telltale creak of the staircase and then the soft footsteps in the hall. Yellow light filtered under the crack of my door, and I knew he was in the bathroom with the flush of the toilet and running water. The clink of his toothbrush on the sink. A cough. A yawn. Then the footsteps faded away toward his bedroom.
I rolled to my back, sighing up at the darkened room.
I closed my eyes again, but Dean’s voice filled my mind, the ghost of his hands embedded themselves in my skin, and I kicked at the covers, suddenly too hot to be comfortable, even with the wind howling outside.
Reminded me of my roaring emotions.
You’re soaked, aren’t you?
So stubborn.
Suck.
